On Lonely Nights
by In Utero
Summary: *SLASH* Boromir/Horn of Gondor. Boromir feels the pressure of the quest and the call of the Ring mounting. One lonely night he steals away from his fellows to seek solace and relief in the truest of his friends and loves; The Horn of Gondor.


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On Lonely Nights

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Disclaimer: I do not own the characters portrayed in this piece, and neither do I own the places and settings used herein. I have no affiliation with the Tolkien estate, and I am making no money from posting this story. I mean no offense by any writing this type of story, and all aspects of Tolkien's work are used with the greatest respect. 

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Author's Note: Never seen this slash pairing before. I had to do it. Certainly hope you enjoy it. Oh yes, and it's not like I was having delusions and saw possibilities for this relationship to develop in the cannon, either. Well, especially not after the horn got cut in two. That put a wet blanket on all my grand schemes.

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Boromir closed his eyes tightly and slouched back heavily onto the large trunk behind him. Another horrid tree, more tormenting forest. On top of the ring, the ceaseless parade of trees was driving him to madness. The notion of how short the remainder of his self-control was surfaced in his pondering, and he sighed self-consciously. 

__

Something else, think of something else; something other than the Ring, other than this quest, other than these bloody trees that never ended. 

Behind him, at the campsite he had left to be alone, he could hear them all laughing and chatting lightly. The jovial crackle of fire in the background, the sweet lull of Aragorn's gentle tenor and the merry giggles of the four hobbits – it grated on his nerves. He did not understand how these individuals could act in this manner, express such carelessness in their behaviour when on a mission of such importance. Neither did he understand how they could be so very sociable when surrounded by so many hateful trees. 

A loose twig created a niggling pain at his left thigh, and he removed it with an angry grunt. He ached for the glistening, hard-stone walls of Gondor. He could not wait to return there - to see his kinsmen and home, to once again joke with his father across a crowded and rowdy dining hall feast, to talk hushed words of supplication to shy maidens for a single kiss. Images of the greatness of Gondor welled in his mind's eye, and he was briefly transported there, away from his frustrations, away from the knowledge of the Ring, away from all responsibility. 

It was he, in utter solitude, with nothing more than a polishing rag and his sword in his father's throne room. 

Boromir felt like taking his head in his hands and spilling the tears that had been threatening their embarrassing release for days now. A mellifluous voice related a tale of the Elves long past, and Boromir could picture that delicate Elvish face animated as it gave this account of times long passed to the willing audience it found in the hobbits. Annoyance blossomed within Boromir as he thought of that Elf's unwavering calm and perfect appearance; it was almost as infuriating as Aragorn's constant commanding vigilance. That ranger acted as though he was the only one offering any security to the party they kept, and it drove Boromir to distraction when he would run ahead with Legolas, leaving the remaining seven like sobbing housewives that need taking care of. 

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I need no taking care of thought Boromir with conviction, driving his fist against the dry leaves and moss littering the forest floor. He stopped himself from picking up a fallen branch nearby and hurling it toward the trees before him – his train of thought was tweaking his ire, an occurrence that had not been his intention at all. It was time to think of something that soothed him, not Gondor for that evoked longing and sadness, not younger days for they were too foreign in this dusky, dull collection of flora. A loose hand fell to his side and brushed along a smooth length of hardness. _Of course – the horn of Gondor._

From the earliest of Boromir's memories, he had always been fascinated with the horn. Curved and glimmering with regal prominence, it had always seemed mythical in its beauty and power. Whenever he could steal a touch, Boromir had allowed his ruddy fingers to explore its almost flawless gloss, to measure its volume in his hand and marvel at its comely curvature. It had always been a symbol of happy times, of stability and assurance in the authority of his father and the solace that Gondor could offer it's keeper. It meant safety and camaraderie; it was the personification of sanctity to Boromir's eyes. 

He had fallen in love with it quite unconsciously, but so deeply. So irrevocably drawn to the instrument was he, more so than he had ever been with another living creature. Mortals were flawed as a matter of course, immortals were imperfect in their self-assurance – the horn of Gondor was neither on these. The horn of Gondor was flawless in it's purpose and faultlessly admirable in it's willingness to assist his leader and country. On top of that, it was a beauteous thing, aesthetically pleasing in it's shimmering perfection. 

How could he resist it's call tonight?

He reached down and unbuckled it from his belt. It seemed to mold into his hands tonight, to return the gentle caress that he gifted upon it – it seemed to know that he was needy and unsettled. Perhaps the years had bonded him to it in more ways that simply one-sided attraction, afforded more than a simple owner/possession relationship. Curling his fingers around it's width, he began to stroke it as he would do have done to himself, pressing gently in places all the correct places as he imagined that his fingers were bringing it pleasure, making it burn with desire at his touch. He would have loved to be able to return the pleasure and comfort that the horn gave him, although he knew that it was near enough to impossible. He hoped that his intentions counted for something, although he knew that the object was unable to feel and lust as the flesh could. 

It aroused him extremely, it always did, watching his own dirt-encrusted fingers slide effortlessly across the shiny surface of the instrument. He teased it's tip, sighing and imagining that the sigh was not his own, but the horn's. It was hard as he was hard – it shared with him joy and craving, reciprocated his attraction, saw the goodness in him that his current company apparently could not see. 

His own hardness was pressing persistently against the crotch of his pants. One last glance over his shoulder in the general direction of the fellowship to check that they had not moved and were not likely to approach him within the next couple of minutes, and Boromir gave in to his base desires. With one hand he struggled with the bindings on his trousers, still stroking the horn with the pad of his thumb in his other. He managed to disentangle the laces and he slid the article down over his hips slightly, allowing his rock-hard arousal to spring free into the crisp night air. It was amazing – the contrast of his heated hardness against the biting night air. Soon, so soon, he'd bury his organ into another coldness, one far more sensual and solid, far more desirable. 

He allowed the wide rim of the edge of the horn to tease and circle the head of his manhood. It was worn like a beach pebble, undulating and sensual to the touch, and it made the large man gasp and arch his back. Sweet torture, it was the sweetest kind of waiting that he inflicted upon himself. He couldn't help it, this was the way he always liked it to be. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he allowed the edge to gather beads of liquid from his leaking member in order to lubricate his passage into the depths of the horn. His seed was already spilling; _Gods I must have been under more stress than I imagined. _

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he grasped the horn firmly between both of his fists and plunged hard into it's hollowness. It fitted like a glove, and for that he was eternally thankful. Just wide enough to allow comfortable passage, yet just slim enough such that he never lost contact and always felt the reassuring and arousing squeeze of the walls. On all accounts, it seemed as though it had been crafted just for him. 

Throwing his perspiring face back into the whispering breezes of the evening, the man thrust harder and faster into the vessel, training his voice desperately to keep the others from hearing his keening and panting. Difficult though it was not to share his delight with the surrounding creatures of the forest, Boromir managed to keep himself in check, and with one resounding dive, he drove his stiffness into the cupping support and filled the horn with his essence. Frantic in his pleasure, he struggled to keep his peak to a few huffed expletives and he fancied that echoed under his own low voice he could just make out another ethereal one of the cusp of his hearing. It mirrored his passion, repeated his curses and moans to him in a barely audible hint at sound. 

Perhaps it was his own frenzy, or mayhap it was the passing of the cool night air in his ears that seemed to howl. But it reassured Boromir and he felt completely at ease in the knowledge that he was never truly alone. Not when the horn of Gondor was with him. 

With a contented sighed Boromir slid his now flaccid self from it's sinfully wonderful confines. A glut of seed followed it, but Boromir allowed it to drip to the earth before removing a cloth from his pocket to wipe clean the insides of the instrument. When the chore was completed, Boromir tucked the cloth back into his pocket and brought the shining object up to his lips. He kissed it gently, whispered words to thanks to it and then fastened it back to its usual place at his side. It seemed to cling to him, curving itself around his hip as he stood to adjust his leggings and other clothing. 

Absentmindedly he patted it before turning back to face the company of the fellowship again. He felt that he was mentally more equipped to handle it now, feeling far more stable than he had before he has sought the comfort of the horn. A genuine smile graced his lips as the horn bobbed at his side with ever step he took, nudging him in a reminder of its presence.

Hesitating once before setting foot into the circle of light made by the company's fire, he reached down once more to stroke the glossy length at his side. 

"Thank you, little one, thank you" he murmured, and stepped out into the open refreshed and relaxed. 

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End file.
